


you can see it with the lights out

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), Stealth 616 cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Will you believe me if I tell you that this is a normal thing that happens between two guys that are friends?” Sam says, and yeah, he’s pretty sure that that came out as weak as it sounded in his head. </p><p>Steve leans up on one elbow, looking down at Sam, that same crinkle around the edges of his eyes noticeable even in the gloom of the motel room light. “I know it’s been seventy years since I last had sex with a man but I’m still pretty sure that’s bullshit, Wilson.” </p><p>Sam Wilson falls in love. Like everything else, it's a process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can see it with the lights out

They make it as far as Ohio before Sam fucks it all up. 

The Motel 6 twenty miles outside of Cleveland only has the one room left and like every gay porn cliche that Sam is pretty sure he’s never gonna admit to actually watching, there’s just the one bed, a queen-sized effort that looks a little bit more like his piece of shit NYU college dorm twin than a queen. 

“I’ll take the floor,” Sam offers, at the exact same moment that Steve says, “You can have the bed,” and then Steve’s eyes do that thing, that little crinkle around the corners that lets you know that as young as he is, this boy-soldier trapped inside the body of an American symbol has lived a life a little rougher than most, and maybe that shouldn’t be attractive but it is. 

There’s always been something attractive about people like Steve, something that draws Sam to them as if there’s some inner compass tugging at his navel, a recognition of sameness, of kinship that pulls them together. Where he can just tell that sure, they’ve seen some shit, just like he’s seen some shit, but they’ve managed to get through it with clear eyes and their feet planted firmly on the ground. Steve isn’t exactly that, not really, because there are shadows lurking in the sleep-bruised circles under Steve’s eyes, but that’s just what makes these moments all the more precious, that Steve can still smile and his whole face shifts with it, an all encompassing joy like the sun coming up after so much darkness. 

Sam can’t help the smile that answers it, wide and reflexive and bright as the early morning sky. 

Steve rolls his shoulders back and nudges Sam in the arm, still with that daring smile curling around the edges of his lips. “The bed looks a little more sanitary than the floor, so how about we share.” 

And Sam -- well, Sam’s been trying his best to put a lid on this, to push past this simmering attraction to Steve that’s been working its way through his system, always just beneath the surface and building a little more with every day. It’s not easy but he’s been through worse hells. 

But squeezed tight together in that dingy motel bed, where not even the thin slip of cold night air creeping through the cracks in the window sealing can detract from the warmth coming off of Steve, can detract from the tension coiling in his gut, it is not long until Sam is hard, noticeably so, and tight around the edges, like he could split wide open from how much he _wants_. 

“Will you believe me if I tell you that this is a normal thing that happens between two guys that are friends?” Sam says, and yeah, he’s pretty sure that that came out as weak as it sounded in his head. 

Steve leans up on one elbow, looking down at Sam, that same crinkle around the edges of his eyes noticeable even in the gloom of the motel room light. “I know it’s been seventy years since I last had sex with a man but I’m still pretty sure that’s bullshit, Wilson.” 

“You -- what?” 

Steve leans in, pressing a barely there kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth before pulling away, blue eyes gone wide and soft and fond. “You heard me.” 

It hits him, all at once, and Sam can’t believe for that as much as he’s always prided himself on being good at reading people, he really didn’t see this coming. They were always headed this way, right from the very beginning, right from that day on the National Mall. All this time he’s been trying so hard to keep Steve from noticing him looking that he didn’t see Steve looking right back. 

It’s been a long time since something’s caught him so wrong-footed. Sam thinks it should be terrifying but it’s not; he knows exactly what comes next. 

“I’m not usually this slow on the uptake,” Sam admits, curling one hand into the soft cotton collar of Steve’s t-shirt and tugging him in close. The sheets on the bed are pushed down and tangled around their legs, trapping them together but that’s okay, Sam’s pretty sure that’s not gonna be a problem in another minute. 

Steve looks down at him through thick lashes, eyes at half-mast, and it is a heady thing, weighted down with intent. “Yeah? That’s funny, I’m not usually this sure about what I want.” 

The way Steve says it, Sam gets the feeling that that’s not exactly true; Steve strikes him as someone who knows exactly what he wants right down to his bones but maybe it’s been a long, long time since he last let himself feel like he had any right to want at all and that -- well, that Sam can get. 

Sam tugs Steve down that extra inch to close the space between them and he’s heard the story from Natasha, heard it from Steve, looking antsy and flushed and embarrassed in the passenger seat of their rental car, but the thing is, the right kind of kiss isn’t really about the practice. It’s another shade of the wanting, another shade of letting yourself want and here, Steve is all in, pressing Sam into the warmth of the mattress and kissing him with an aching slowness that leaves them both a little dizzy. 

“Seventy years, huh?” Sam says, a little breathless and not finding it in himself to care. “Hell of a dry spell. You gotta a to-do list?”

Steve shrugs, slipping a hand beneath the waistline of Sam’s boxers, the whorls of his thumb tracing white hot patterns into the dip below Sam’s hip. “Spent a lot of time thinking about giving you a blowjob. That alright with you?” 

There it is, that daring grin again, the lingering ghost of a mouthy little shit a whole century away, and it’s a wonder that more people can’t see it. 

Sam huffs a laugh, even as Steve’s words send a jolt running up and down his spine. “Yeah, you know what, Rogers, I think I can find it myself to grant that wish.”

“You’re a giving man, Staff Sergeant Wilson.” 

“I do what I can.” 

.

Sam wakes to an empty bed, cooling sheets and a chicken scratch note left on the pillow next to his head. 

_Gone to get breakfast. Be back soon. - SR_

Sam flops backwards onto the bed, eyes tracing patterns into the water stains on the ceiling. He wonders how long ago that note was written. He wonders if this was a deflection, regret sidestepped in the form of a quick getaway or if it really was as simple as Steve’s never-ending appetite craving a morning-after meal. 

He decides it’s the latter. He’s got a good feeling about this. 

Sam drifts in and out of sleep for the next twenty minutes before finally heaving himself out of bed, shucking on yesterday’s jeans and padding to the front door, cracking it open to peer out only to find Steve sitting on the bench outside their front door, a bag of McDonald’s and two coffee cups sitting next to him, smack dab in the middle of lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips with a hot pink BIC lighter. 

“Uhhh,” Steve says, looking up at Sam guiltily. “This isn’t what it looks like.” 

Sam leans against the door jamb, crossing his arms over his chest. “First gay sex, now cigarettes? Any other bombshells you want to drop on me, Captain America?” 

Steve tucks the cigarette behind his ear, grinning sheepishly. “There is something, yeah.”

Sam makes a well c’mon gesture with his hand. 

“Sam,” Steve starts, dropping into his stage voice, his Captain America war bonds voice, fixing Sam with a serious gaze, “I gotta confess the truth to you. I’m….I’m not a Republican.” 

Sam cracks up, bracing himself against the door before sliding downwards onto the bench next to Steve. It takes them a minute to calm down, to let their bodies stop shaking and when they do, they’re pressed close together, hip to hip, easy as anything, and Sam’s shoulders loosen, relieved that his intuition was dead on. 

Steve hands over the bag of McDonald’s and a cup of coffee wordlessly and Sam digs out a bacon, egg and cheese bagel, relishing in the grease and the scald of the hot, black coffee in the early morning chill. 

“Was it Barnes,” Sam says, minutes later when he finally finishes his bagel, crumpling up the paper bag and draining his cup of the remaining watered down coffee grounds. “Seventy years ago?” 

Steve lets out a sigh, letting his head fall back into the wall behind them with a thump. “Yeah.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Steve shrugs and Sam feels every inch of that slow, hesitant movement, close as they are. “I don’t know. It was 1941. He’d just re-enlisted after Pearl Harbor was bombed. We never talked about it again, after.” 

“During the war, you weren’t -- “ 

“No.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, dragging it forward, tugging at the ends. It’s gotten long again and when the light hits him just right, he looks like something out of a long ago film reel which technically, he is. “Bucky was smart. Bright and capable and healthy, rising through the ranks before we even knew for sure that we were going to war. Everyone was always expecting things from him. His parents, his sisters, the neighbors, the U.S. Army. Nobody ever expected anything from me; it was a nice surprise if I survived the next winter. It’s… it’s not easy to make a relationship work like that.” 

“Especially an illegal one.”

Steve hums his agreement. “Then I met Peggy and...and he was happy for me. And we didn’t talk about it. It just was.” 

“And now?”

“Now...now I can’t even think about that, really. I can’t see past making sure he’s safe. That’s the end point. Besides, we were always….we were always best friends first, you know?” 

Sam swallows hard. “And me?” 

Steve stretches out a hand, a tentative hand lacing fingers through Sam’s. “Sam, uh….” Steve coughs, a nervous habit well-worn after so many hours on the road together. “Most days when I think about the future, you’re the first thing I see, every time.” 

Sam’s mouth goes dry but his whole body warms and if he’s feeling a little light-headed, he tells himself it’s because he had too much coffee and not enough breakfast to go with it. “I can go with that.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, glancing at Sam sideways, a shy smile curling around the edges of his lips. 

There’s a swooping low in Sam’s stomach, just like the first second after he steps out of an airplane, when the wind rushes through his ears and he’s falling down, down, down and Sam doesn’t even try to fight it, finds that he couldn’t even if he wanted to. 

“Yeah.”

. 

The next few months go a little like this: 

They go after Barnes. They blow up HYDRA base after HYDRA base and take off for the hills the second local law enforcement has it under control. There’s a Congressional hearing on their tails, committees upon committees of politicians screaming for blood, screaming for Captain America’s head on a silver platter, for an empty suit and a tired symbol to stand up and take the blame for SHIELD but Steve and Sam, together they’re too fast, too good of a team, always outrunning the winds that are chasing them. 

They share cramped beds in musty motel rooms and they fuck and they fuck and they fuck. Sam hasn’t had this much sex since he and Riley took their one and only leave together to Sam’s old apartment in Harlem almost four years ago now and every time, it’s like he gets to know Steve a little more, gets to see what makes Steve tick underneath it all. What he finds is that Steve is young and Steve is reckless and foolish and kind of an asshole; that he snores like a foghorn and sucks dick like a champion, that he can’t stand the Beastie Boys but has kind of a thing for M.I.A. and that he never stops making that same sour, disapproving face at the price of food these days. 

Sam makes a point not to lie to himself. He’s falling in love with Steve, utterly and hopelessly ass over heels in love. He sits in the passenger seat of a borrowed Dodge Camaro and watches Steve let the wide, desert Nevada road open up in front of him, every window rolled down and Bruce Springsteen blasting from the loudspeakers and thinks, I could do this forever. 

.

Halfway through senior year of high school, he and Leila made a pact. 

There was an exchange student from London at their high school for their first semester, all posh accent and cabled sweaters and full Hugh Grant hair that looked a little too much to be real. His name was John and he and Leila hit it off like a house on fire, bonding over art and poetry and two dollar wine. Leila talked about it all of the time -- about the art scene in London, about what it’d be like if she moved there. She made like it wasn’t about John, not really, because that’s the sort of thing you do when you’re a damn fool teenager in love, you lie to yourself point blank and believe it every time, right down to your bones. 

But John was a bit of an asshole, in the end, and the sex supposedly awkward and clammy and hesitant, and after everything was done and dusted, Leila climbed through Sam’s window at 3 in the morning, blowing in the smoke and the exhaust from the crowded city street, sheepish and embarrassed and vowing never to do it again. 

Sam had held out his pinky finger, elbowing Leila in the gut until she rolled her eyes and linked her pinky finger with his. 

“Promise me, Leila Taylor, that you will never again lose your shit so completely that you start to rearrange your entire life over a dumbass white boy.” 

“I promise,” Leila had said, blowing a breath out that sent her curly hair spiraling upwards, a familiar expression of Sam-Wilson-you’re-being-a-jerk frustration. 

“Nah, come on, not good enough, Taylor. You have to say it. Repeat after me, young lady.” 

“Alright,” Leila says, before turning to fix him with a glare, brown eyes bright and intent in the dim, the only light in the room coming from the Power Rangers night-light that Sam’s father gave him when he was a kid, the one that he still doesn’t have the heart to get rid of even now, with scruff coming in on his chin and graduation on the horizon, now when it’s been years and years since he was last scared of the dark. “But only if you promise it too.” 

Sam had scoffed with all of the confidence of an eighteen year old boy who was pretty sure he knew himself a little better than that. “Yeah, sure.” 

If Leila could see him now, she’d be laughing her fucking ass off. 

. 

They’ve been in L.A. all of a day when it happens and the hell of it is, Sam usually sees this part coming, usually knows to heed the road signs along the way, knows to pick out the triggers and follow through on all the right things to do and say to push past it but it is 2014 and Sam is happy and careless and in love and it is not quite three years since Riley fell from the sky in so much blood and fire, and Sam wakes with a silent scream lodged deep inside his throat. The finer details of the dream fade fast, leaving behind only vague impressions, unsettling in their unreality; Sam closes his eyes and sees the way Riley’s face would wrinkle and frown in his sleep, hears the sound of a howling scream torn away by the rush of air, and through it all, an interplay of Riley and Steve and Sam’s father and all of them, falling, falling, falling, Sam helpless to save them every time. 

Sam opens his eyes; Steve is sound asleep beside him, chest rising in a steady, rhythmic beat, blonde hair a stark contrast against the deep green forest motif of the room they’re staying in. Steve looks nothing like Riley except for the hair but still, in that moment, Sam has to shake off the dysphoria. 

He thinks of their last fight, his mind suddenly calling forward images of how Steve had jumped off of a moving train onto a car filled with HYDRA agents with nothing but that goddamn shield. Steve had walked away from it with nothing more serious than a split lip and a shiner that was gone in an hour and it’s a thing that Sam teases him about, most days, a point of contention and annoyance when Sam is tired and aching and bruised in just about every place a human being can be bruised, but now all he can see is Steve taking one wrong turn, Steve timing it all wrong and ending up as so much splattered blood on the side of a mountain. 

Sam takes a ragged breath, placing a steadying hand to his rapidly beating heart. 

Sam eases himself back onto the hard pillow but it’s no use, he won’t sleep another wink the whole night. 

In the morning, Natasha calls and says she’s found Barnes; says that he’s living in San Diego in a trailer on the beach, that he’s doing okay, all things considered, that he’s learning how to be a person again. Says that he thinks maybe he’s ready to see Steve again, if that’s okay. 

Any other morning, Steve would’ve noticed it right away, would’ve seen the grey curling around Sam’s eyes and the weariness in his posture and Sam can picture how it would go, can feel Steve’s hand on his elbow, steadying him, fixing him with that concentrated sort of attention that’s as blinding as the sun. Now, Sam can only ever be grateful to Barnes for the distraction as he sinks back into the car seat, hot coffee cooling between both hands, the car rumbling beneath them, speeding them along the 405 towards the final, eventual end of their journey. 

.

Steve and Barnes stand shoulder to shoulder on an empty beach, a rickety trailer set off to the side, as the ocean stretches out before them and the sun rises high in the sky. 

Barnes’s only neighbor is an equally rickety trailer a mile down the beach; it houses a girl in her early twenties, a dog and two cats and between the five of them, Sam is pretty sure they’re mostly subsisting off of Chef Boyardee but despite all that, Barnes looks good. Six months ago, he was more asset than human, more metal and gunsmoke than flesh and blood but here, there is blood in his cheeks, a wry half-grin curling around the edges of his lips, and his hair, pulled back now in a messy bun, is streaked through with blonde from the sun. 

Sam looks down and finds that his hands have started to shake, so he stuffs them inside his pockets and takes a step back, lets them have their moment. He swallows down the panic, tasting it in the back of his throat, stale and bitter -- it would be easy to tell himself that this is jealousy, that this is a simple case of worrying about the ex but it’s not about Barnes, not at all. 

Hell, it’s not about Steve, either. 

It had been a long, long time since Steve last let himself want. That was the thought that had pinged at Sam all those months ago, that night when they kissed for the first time. Sam looked right in front of him and what he saw in Steve was a soldier, a veteran, a man paused in a moment that he’d never get back, who took years to let himself believe that he deserved the chance to move forward, to unstick himself from that moment and keep on going. 

It’s funny, isn’t it. 

That Sam could see it so easily in someone else but that it could take him so long to see it in himself. 

He’s moved forward in every other corner of his life; he left Afghanistan, he left Harlem, he left the Air Force, he got a job and went to therapy and made friends with the single mother who lives on the other side of his apartment unit and he learned to cook all his mother’s favorite meals but when it comes to love, there’s some part of him that’s still on pause, still stuck hundreds of miles up in the sky with a scream tearing its way out of his throat and hand outstretched in futility, watching Riley fall. 

The next day, Sam books a flight back to DC. 

Steve stays. 

.

There’s a pile of mail on Sam’s doorstep that stands a foot high, spilling over into the walkway. He kicks it all inside and drops his duffle to the floor with a thump. There’s a faintly musty, organic smell rising from the kitchen and Sam opens the refrigerator door with a wince only to find that there’s a whole bag of clementines sitting in the bottom drawer that he missed when he was emptying it out all those months ago. 

“Gonna need a hazmat suit for this shit,” Sam mutters, already reaching for the heavy duty trash bags. 

It takes an hour to get everything sorted out, to throw out all of the lingering trash and food and throw open every window, letting fresh air circulate throughout his apartment for the first time in half a year and he’s not gonna ask how he even still has this apartment in the first place but he’s pretty sure the answer starts with a T and ends with a ‘Challa, so it’s best not to even bother. 

Some days, you save the life of an African prince and wind up with a terrifyingly determined friend for life in the process. Other days, you fall in love with Captain America and wind up committing treason while fighting Nazis in the process. 

But today -- today, he’s gonna take it easy. 

Today, he’s gonna head over to Trader Joe’s and buy a week’s supply of ready-made meals and a couple of bottles of red wine and prepare to dig in. 

Sam is halfway out the front door, recyclable bag tucked under one arm, when he pulls his phone out on a whim, fingers finding the numbers as easy as breathing, muscle memory taking over. 

_TO: Leila  
Hey, can we Skype some time soon? I need to talk to you._

.

It’s takes a month for their schedules to finally line up and Sam swallows down a reflexive nervousness as he hears that familiar Skype pinging sound. It’s been a year since he last saw his best friend’s face and there’s a surge of guilt low in his stomach because most of that is his fault. Chicago is not so far away and he could’ve tried a little harder. 

The window loads and before Sam knows it, Leila’s face is peering at him through the computer screen. She’s wearing brand new glasses and her hair is pulled back in purple braids that he’s never seen before but she’s wearing that same old Harlem Prep t-shirt, with the label faded and cracked, and a tight coil inside of Sam eases at the warm flare of familiarity. 

“Hey, asshole, long time no see. Commit any treason lately?” 

Sam sticks his tongue out at her like the child that she makes him feel like. “Nope. How about you, Taylor, spray paint any cop cars lately?” 

Leila rolls her eyes, ignoring him. “What’s this about, Wilson? Don’t play like this isn’t about a boy, I already know it is. Don’t tell me you went and fell for Captain fucking America.” 

Sam shifts guilty, giving himself away with ease. 

Leila lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Alright, idiot. Tell me everything.”

So he does. 

.

A week passes. And then another and another and before he knows it, he hasn’t seen Steve in almost two months now and he’s missed him for every aching second of it. 

But he still doesn’t regret walking away, doesn’t regret giving himself space. 

He spends a weekend on Leila’s couch in Chicago, moaning and groaning and downing more goldschlager than could possibly be considered advisable for two grown-ass adults. He goes back to therapy and he babysits his neighbor’s kid and he wanders through the halls of American Art and he forces himself to breath through every inch of it. 

He drives all the way to Pennsylvania to see Riley’s grave and stands there for hours, heaving great big messy, gasping sobs and at the end of it, Sam finds he can let go. 

.

With tears still drying on his face and a misty, chill November rain pelting down onto his car’s windshield, Sam calls Steve for the first time since he left San Diego. 

It only rings once before Steve picks it up, his low tenor echoing uncertainly down the receiver. “Sam? Is that you? Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah.” Sam leans over, fiddling with the dial to turn up the heat, suddenly mindful of how cold it is and how thin his jacket is for Pennsylvania at this time of year. Steve is a whole country away in sunny California and it’s a funny thing, to wrap his mind around that dissonance. “Yeah, you know, I think so. How are you? You gone native yet?” 

Steve huffs a laugh. “Maybe. We moved out of the trailer, anyways. Got ourselves a bungalow on the beach. I think Bucky is aimin’ to steal that girl’s dog but he’s not being as stealthy about it as he thinks he is.” 

“A bungalow, huh? Barnes finally get sick of your snoring?” 

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Steve says. 

“Says you, you’re asleep when it happens, what the hell do you know?” 

“You got me there,” Steve says wryly, and isn’t that a hell of a thing, that Sam can guess at just exactly the shade of self-deprecating asshole that’s just crossed Steve’s face. 

“What else are you up to? It’s what, it’s about dinner time there, right?” 

Steve hums in assent. “I bought a box of tacos from a food truck down the street. Bucky’s got himself a date tonight, so it’s just me and the tacos and Netflix.” 

Sam starts in surprise. “A date, huh? It’s not the dog girl, is it?”

Steve laughs and Sam warms a little at the sound of it. “No, god no, it’s not Kate. No, the guy’s a volunteer firefighter, his name is….Tom? Toro? I think maybe he goes by both, I don’t know. Either way, Bucky, _like the asshole that he is_ ,” Steve says, and Sam wonders if he even realizes how deep and sudden his Brooklyn gets when he’s talking about Bucky like this, “offered to see if maybe Toro had a friend he could scrounge up so we could go on yet another awful double date just like we used to.” 

“And you turned that down? You know, hot firefighter ass is nothing to sneeze at, Rogers.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s this fella I’m kinda crazy about. Smart guy, real handsome. Great in bed. Picked him up on the National Mall on my morning run one day. He needed to take some time away from us but I guess maybe I’m not ready to give him up just yet.” 

“Yeah? And what if he’s not too sure how much more time he needs?” 

“Worth the wait,” Steve says firmly. 

Sam leans back into the plushness of the car seat, letting Steve’s voice wash over him, and finally touches his feet to solid ground.


End file.
